"You've no business to have a wife if you can't put up with your own
children."

"It isn't my business to have a wife," Papa said. "It's my pleasure. My
business is to insure ships. And you see me putting up with Mary very
well. I suppose she's my own child."

"Mark and Dan are your own children first."

"_Are_ they? To judge by your infatuation I should have said they
weren't. 'Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? Silver
bells and cockle shells, and chocolate creams all in a row.'"

He took a large, flat box of chocolates out of his pocket and laid it
beside her plate. And he looked straight at Mamma again.

"If those are the chocolates I reminded you to get for--for the hamper, I
won't have them opened."

"They are _not_ the chocolates you reminded me to get for--the hamper. I
suppose Mark's stomach _is_ a hamper. They are the chocolates I reminded
myself to get for Mary."

Then Mamma said a peculiar thing.

"Are you trying to show me that you're not jealous of Mary?"

"I'm not trying to show you anything. You know I'm not jealous of Mary.
And you know there's no reason why I should be."